


Fine Line

by Smushed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Drugs, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Frustration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smushed/pseuds/Smushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things get messy when Jim takes a different approach to his game with Sherlock. It's a battle of emotion instead of cleverness. But with Sherlock so locked up emotionally how can he compete?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, first post/story on ao3. I encourage opinions, suggestions, corrections. :) I hope you enjoy it. I don't really know where to go with this... (It could get really dark but I am unsure...) Thank you for reading. <3 Every bit of support is welcome. P.S. I'm trying my best to keep the characterization as accurate as possible, if you have any suggestions for this if you find a problem don't be afraid to mention it. Thanks! x

The eerily sweet and calm Irish accent flooded the silence of the warehouse, echoing and reverberating back into Sherlock’s ears, stirring him from his unconsciousness. (Sore head, throbbing, dizziness, initial impact.)

“You know, there is a fine line between pain and pleasure.” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, his dark eyes rolled up to the ceiling as if the image he recollected was there, he hummed in his throat warmly, shivering as he chuckled, Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“Not that you would know much about pleasure.” He continued, “not _physical_ pleasure anyway.” Sherlock could hear the clack of expensive gucinari shoes on the concrete behind him. His wrists and elbows were tied down to the arms of the chair tightly; his ankles and neck were cuffed by metal to the legs and back. Moriarty would not make the stupid mistake as to give Sherlock the opportunity to slip by him. The clacking became an irregular shuffle as Moriarty danced, moving from behind the chair to a couple of inches in front of the detective. His blackish eyes were glistening with moisture and excitement, highlighted by the dim spotlight above Sherlock’s head, whose face was grave.

“You know, it was a little _too_ easy to knock you out.” Moriarty’s teeth gripped his bottom lip as his index finger tapped the sore spot under the curly mop of hair, his face so close he could feel Sherlock’s breathing. Sherlock was rendered unconscious during his desperate attempt to inject himself. He took it up again a few days after he could not find John. (Feeling wholly responsible for his disappearance and a foreboding sense of loneliness in the flat; it seemed the most logical solution for these unusual emotions that had practically gathered dust on the narrow shelf of Sherlock’s emotive spectrum.)

“You’re no fun when your pet goes missing…” He licked his lips, smiling. “Ever wonder why?” Moriarty’s fingers traced the back of Sherlock’s hand before walking up the arm. “I think you’ve wondered, but you have never figured it out.” Sherlock was stiff with reluctance; his eyes looked straight through Moriarty, trying to ignore the feeling as the fingertips brush up his flesh. The walk of the index and middle finger reached his bare shoulder (he only just noticed his shirt was missing, his brain was still catching up with normal functionality after the impact), then Moriarty’s finger nail scratched the steel cuff before the hand curled around Sherlock’s neck “But I have.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to Moriarty’s, whose eyebrows were raised and lips puckered slightly with sinister tenderness. “Poor, poor Sherlock” he murmured, the ‘r’ of Sherlock’s name rolls sickly sweet off the criminal’s lips, the thumb now stroking the protruding Adams apple.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and his eyes grew dark. “What are you talking about?” The deep and throaty growl contrasted with the Irish lightness of Moriarty’s, who felt the vibration through his fingers and the Adams apple run up and down his thumb with each syllable.

“You really don’t know?” Moriarty feigned shock before his face transfigured into pure indulgence, the twitch by his lips and the smile in his eyes made Sherlock uneasy. Moriarty’s face moved beside Sherlock’s head, his lips pressed lightly against the cuff of his ear, the breathing sending shudders down Sherlock’s spine, “Then _I_ win.” Moriarty chanted quietly.

Sherlock was about to react but then Moriarty’s lips closed around his neck and teeth bit down so quickly that he gasped instead, the metallic warmth seeped into Moriarty’s mouth. Sherlock was breathing sharply through clenched teeth as he watched Moriarty lick his bloody lip and skip backwards giddily. Sherlock was growing angry and frustrated.

“See, my latest experiment was _very_ fun.” Moriarty brushed some of the blood of Sherlock’s neck with his thumb and smoothed it across his lower lip so that he could lick it off again. “I have your John.” He explained and Sherlock out of instinct resisted against the cuffs and rope. “Ooh, tut tut, Sherlock. I think you ought to behave.” He chimed, and drawing out a remote from his trouser pocket he clicked a button and a wave of light came from behind Sherlock and projected onto the wall. A picture of John.

Sherlock’s mouth was agape with a moment of shock before it became instant fury; he bared his teeth and hissed “What have you _done_.” Moriarty absorbed the anger like cigarette smoke, inhaling it and feeling the nicotine buzz of satisfaction. “I _told_ you, my latest experiment.” Was Moriarty’s reply.


	2. The Movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor, poor Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like it, I was going to go really dark with this but I was worried so instead I took a strange turn. I hope you enjoy it.

Moriarty could see his advantage in this game before it begun. He knew that Sherlock was in love with John Watson, but also concluded that Sherlock did not even _know_ of his own infatuation. ("Poor, poor Sherlock") It was not fair, Sherlock was so reserved in terms of consideration and affection that he all entirely forgot how to use them. He buried emotions so deep in his seemingly obnoxious persona that anyone would think him to be a robot. Was it really the detectives fault? He was frowned at throughout his entire life, society _rejected_ him, all because he could read the entire truth of a person from the way they walked and the scars and stains they carried. People _lie_. If they were honest with themselves, then they would not want to punch Sherlock just for reading their story, which lay open for him like a book (it would be rude not to read it). And because of this, he could not recognize affection for any living thing (emphasis on _living_ , he grew rather fond of his violin. (And sometimes ash.)).

"Stop it." Sherlock snapped, _"Stop it!"_ each word he spat was plosive with anger, as he glared at the illuminated wall in front of him. This was not right. Sherlock's eyes suddenly felt dirty, he dragged his eyes down to look at his naked abdominal muscles instead (which were now trembling). His chest rising and falling in a broken rhythm of pure frustration, John would not want him to see this, so he forced himself not to look. 

The image that was projected onto the wall of the warehouse, was of John Watson, bright and clear. Naked. The picture was taken with full professional camera flood lights which highlighted each of John's muscles, protruding from the healthy glow of his skin. His collar bone stuck out from his raised left shoulder and his face was tilted to the right and pointed downwards (with shame? embarrassment?) The angle caused John's face to be heavily shadowed and the jaw ultimately defined. The naked legs were parted as his elbows rested on his thighs, his body looked rigid and forced, but his face was relaxed, although Watson's skin betrayed him, glowing with the anger pulsing through his capillaries that flushed his shoulders and cheeks. It was a beautiful photo, but this was _not right_.

Sherlock was so used to seeing that same body, covered with a layer of cloth, making them cups of tea, lying on the couch with his newspaper at his chest, kneeling next to him at crime scenes, but not _this_. The only time he had ever seen more of the peach-fresh flesh than he had been invited to view was when he was 74% sure that John was masturbating; but the 26% deduction that he was having a panic attack or a fear induced hyperventilation gave Sherlock a sinking feeling in his chest (heart?) so he threw himself into John's room, stumbling into (what Sherlock liked to name) 'the incident'. Needless to say the next eye contact they made was short and awkward, but was fixed with John's stumbling words: "Uh- Do you- How about- Tea?"

So how could Sherlock now, strapped to a grotesque chair, in an old abandoned warehouse, be viewing his doctor so _distastefully_. Sherlock would not betray his (only) friend. 

"It gets _so_ much better!" the silvery voice chimed in (somewhere unknown, too angry to think) the warehouse. The next image flickered violently, this time John was on his knees facing away from the camera, his legs reluctantly spread slightly, face buried mostly into the pillow but a glimpse of his furrowed brow could be seen and this time the hands were tied behind his sloped back. Sherlock could see (through his dreaded voyeurism) from the top of his peripheral vision, the most private parts of his housemate dangling helplessly between the tensed legs. ( _"John... No..."_ ) He shut his eyes tight and his entire body went numb where it sat, Sherlock made a feeble attempt at slumping in the chair but the restraints denied him. 

"Come _on_ , Sherlock! Perk up!" Moriarty felt it his place, at this point, to run towards the image on the wall. John projected everywhere, over Moriarty's silhouette, although the detective's eyes were shut, nakedness of John was printed involuntarily on the inside of his eyelids. Moriarty's hand placed itself at the buttocks of the image hovering over it in small circles. "You should have touched them, Sherlock. Truly _beautiful_ skin." Moriarty sighed, practically school-girl-ish, Sherlock was grimacing at the idea that he used to compare him and Moriarty together as the same. Sherlock's eyes scrunched tighter, his fists were clenched. The creases beside his eyes looked like the roots of a flower. (" _I'm so sorry, John..._ ".) He tilted his head down towards his own chest, as much as he could, guilt ridden once more, he could not save him in time.

He heard the soles of those expensive shoes tap quick-step towards his chair before two hands snatched his forearms with a claw like grip, "No." Moriarty was pressing his lips against the prominent cheek bone of the detective, pecking it in a precious warning, " _look!_ " he whispered hoarsley, the next flash was not an image though, but a video.

***

John Watson was sick of being posed by these (strangely) gentle and sickly hands, these photos made his skin crawl, he felt exposed, he felt _dirty_. He tried so hard to be calm and collected, to show Moriarty (and his pathetic lackeys) that these photos were just sick and implorable on their part to say the least. Why did they need them so badly? What was the exact _purpose?_ Naked? John did not question that part too much (it made him feel slightly sick), he was not too squirmish being naked, not when a gun is perched by his temple, but he usually reserved this view for specific audiences that he _chose_. He definitely did not choose this bastard to see him this way.

"Oh, _John_ you should _see_ yourself right now." Jim Moriarty sang, clasping his shirt above his heart, before pressing a button on the camera, the _ping!_ was followed by a red light. (Recording?) Moriarty slid towards John. "Oh, you should _see yourself_." He sighed, John's face was still in the (feather) pillow, the snow white sheets were blinding in this light, his rear still pointed upwards John felt Moriarty place his hand firmly against his inner thigh on his right leg, before he was flipped over. John could see the infamous creased forehead, those raised thick brows that were framing his glossy black eyes accompanied with the twitch of a sadistic smile at the corner of his lips. John's face was stern, the anger gave his age away, but Moriarty loved the idea of a silver fox. The mattress where Moriarty sat sank by John's side and the criminal ran his fingers along Watson's fringe and tenderly brushed the grey-blonde hairs behind his ears. John was lying on his hands, which were twitching to punch that smug face.

"I want to apologize, John." Moriarty lied, moving his eyes from the head of hair and instead bore them into John's searing grey iris. "But, 'the course of true love never did run smooth'." Moriarty sighed, he shut his eyes and pressed his lips together in a fine line. _("Ugh, Shakespeare. Cliché. What the hell is he talking about?" John thought.)_ the muscles under his eyes pushed his squint into a frown of contempt. 

Moriarty was facing half to John, half to the camera, he loosened his black tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt, shrugging his shoulders and letting his hands fall onto his knees, rubbing his thighs in impatience and some sort of fake concern, he closed his eyes once more as his index and thumb pinched the bridge of his nose, he sighed. The moment of silence was short but tense with questions, Moriarty's eyes snapped at the camera and his entire physicality changed, he was directing his look straight at Sherlock, a sinister raised upper lip, predatory before he spun around and lay his hands either side of John's head. His expression changed once more, to a counterfeit of sadness, for this move in the game.

"You see, John." Moriarty shuffled to kick his shoes off and then mounted John's lap. "I _know_. I know you love Sherlock." He stated simply, as John's knees were raised Moriarty leaned back on them to read John's expression. The defiance in his face had instantly changed to a mixture of denial and shock, little could Moriarty know that the doctors entire torso had frozen, like liquid nitrogen had been poured over his insides.

"W-What are you talking about?" John accidentally stuttered, kicking himself for that mentally, but he managed to keep a pissed-off tone in his voice. He wriggled beneath Moriarty in discomfort (whose eyes fluttered a little as he felt John accidentally grind him.) If Moriarty had played his move correctly, Watson would now forget that the camera was recording, and he could really get a good movie to show his opposing player.

"John, please. I know. No need to deny it, this is what all this is about." He gestured with his hands at the bed and the empty (besides the anonymous gun wielders) room. He craned down John's body to whisper into his ear. "I have a gift for you." The Irish words tickled John's ear, he instinctively shuddered. Moriarty leaned back again against his Watson-chair and pulled a blindfold out of his pocket, John frowned once more, looking around the room. "But first you need to take this." Wrapped in the blindfold was a pill (Moriarty tailored it specifically for John, a form of Alprazolam with some MDMA and a slight here and there of other drugs, he had tested it a couple of times, and the effects were desired. Heightened euphoria, relaxation and a gain of trust.)  


"No." John spat, and a millisecond after his answer he heard a guns safety trigger crack in the air. Pressing his lips together angrily he tossed his head to face out into the darkness, cursing under his breath. Moriarty placed the pill on his own tongue, glanced slyly at the camera and then grabbed John's cheeks with his hands, kissing John and then forcing his lips apart with his tongue and trading the pill as he brushed it past the doctors. "And, swallow..." Moriarty smiled as he watched the Adams apple bob, the pill passed down it.

"By my calculations we have up to twenty minutes." Moriarty climbed off of John's hips and lay next to him instead, resting his hands behind his head and had one ankle pressed against his opposing raised knee in a lounging position. His suit was a brilliant black compared to the pale skin and fluorescent white sheets. "So I will explain to you what is going to happen. You love Sherlock. But he can not love you back." Moriarty states these like facts off a sheet, John stays quiet, but his eyes give everything away. All this time he had shook his head, ( _"Don't be stupid, it's_ Sherlock. _"_ ) but all the suppression was seeping away, his feelings were coming in waves as he accepted it in the presence of someone who knew about it. Poor, poor Sherlock. How could he know? Of course- Moriarty knew that in fact, the feeling was reciprocated. They love each other but were too _stupid_. Now Moriarty's perfect intervention would be his best weapon against Sherlock, but he had already won. 

"He _cannot_." Moriarty reiterated, shaking his head with pity. "It's so _sad_." Whenever Moriarty tried empathy or any other humane emotion, it was always so sickly, like having a mouth that was full of honey and no matter how many times you tried to wash it away it would always make your taste buds cry with over-sweetened pain. John thought at this point he would rather have him being a sadistic fuck than this whole theatrical façade. "He is a sociopath, and it is only your tragedy that you should fall for one. _So,_ I am giving you this opportunity." Moriarty moved his hands to stretch his arms out right in front of him above his face so he could start playing with the soft silk of the blindfold, stroking it. John was starting to feel the pill, gradually but certainly, his muscles stopped tensing so much, and the pit of his gut no longer felt like lead. ( _"What did he give me?"_ ) John's medical knowledge seeped to the back of his mind, his brain telling him he didn't need it right now. Moriarty then moved to lean on his left elbow, resting his head on it (like that damn school-girl act) he smiled at John. Using his right hand to tickle John's chest which was still pushed outwards because his (numb) hands lay tied beneath, the fingertips fluffing through the fine hairs (" _Ugh, that tickles._ ").

"My gift to you," Moriarty licked his lips, "is a fuck." His teeth shone in a small smile. "I am going to fuck you, John Watson. But with this blindfold, you can pretend that I am your dear, loved, Sherlock. You can pretend it's him that is making you feel good instead, isn't that wonderful?" John would feel sick at this point if the pill wasn't spreading serotonin through his body. "I even have a recording of Sherlock's voice saying your name. Easy to obtain. But this is going to be fun for both of us, if you let it." John shut his eyes, but all he could see was Sherlock- the way his upper lip hovered over his mug of tea before he drank, his tall legs striding through the house, the way he bent down to pick up his violin and the way he held it (and John wishing that caressing hand were elsewhere), Sherlock's eyes staring outwards from boredom but always staring at John with _something_ , something that gave him hope. But the hope was always stained with a knowledge of what Moriarty had just confirmed. 

He would rather believe Sherlock to never love him back, than to have hope and to be crushed by it mercilessly. The effects of the pill washed over him now. His train of thought was swirling around his favourite image of Sherlock in his head, smiling at him (he can not remember how he made Sherlock smile like that, but it did not matter). He did not intend to fall in love with his house mate, nor could he explain it, it is nothing to do with gender or age. John just realized more and more that he wanted to see that same face in the morning and just before bed, he loved the twitch of his jaw when he beat him at Cluedo, loved the extra-curliness of his hair when he had just woken up, laughed at the utter blank (and petulant) look of Sherlock's face when he knew nothing about popular culture, the smiles were so rare that they hugged John from the inside, the tea, when Sherlock (ever) made it, tasted _nicer_ than anyone else's, of course he was utterly in love with the man. Can he now live his recurring dream? Can he actuate his fantasy? No matter how he would feel afterwards? ( _"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."_ )

John sighed, one long sigh, as he lifted his head from the pillow to allow Moriarty to tie the blindfold around his head.


	3. Sherlock's Breaking Point

Sherlock's mouth was dry, it had been open for a while as he watched the video, eyes stinging from not blinking. He did not want to miss a thing. This was his John, his _exposed_ John. He watched Moriarty man-handle him onto his back and mount him. (" _Get_ off _of him._ ") His wrists, ankles, elbows and neck were rubbed raw, the skin inflamed and irritated. Sherlock had been pressing himself hard against them (punishing himself.) The look Moriarty gave Sherlock through the camera was like a kick to his shin, the detective was furious, irritated, he heard the conversation Moriarty had with John over speakers, the voices rang clearly within the hollow warehouse. The words -'I know you love Sherlock'- erupted and suddenly Sherlock felt an out-of-body experience, his mind exploding with fireworks of emotion but his body was detached. John? That's, not possible... is it?

John's reaction to Moriarty's statement was easily readable over film, especially to Sherlock, he deducted in seconds that Moriarty spoke the truth. (John's stutter: panic, no time to think of a lie so acts clueless. The shuffle: discomfort, someone prying into his private thoughts.) Sherlock should feel happy, blissful, he was _loved_. But no, he felt sick. He could see the consulting criminal, mounting his friend, stroking his chest, touching. Touching. Sherlock wanted to scream, but refused to give Moriarty the satisfaction. The pill going down the doctor's throat, the submission, the weakness in his facial features once Moriarty explained Sherlock's incompetence to love. Then a realization struck his head harder than how he had been knocked out earlier.

The echo on the audio of the video wasn't just from the speakers in this room, the echo was also in the actual sound. The very same echo in this building. The wall behind the head of the bed, just visible, the same brick work as what it was being projected on to (which explains the lack of recognition from earlier). John was in the warehouse.

Sherlock's attention returned to the room and his entire face turned to pure poison as the synapses in his brain connected Moriarty's dot-to-dot of his sick plan. He pressed his body tighter against the restraints, hissing through his teeth. "Moriarty, you sadistic _BASTARD!_ " He roared, lips framing his teeth in a predatory growl. "STOP IT!" He was shaking angrily (too angrily), the epinephrine multiplying in his blood, striking his brain into function. He stared at the back of Moriarty's head, who was standing as though at an art exhibition (leaning on one hip, holding his chin). After a delay, turned his head as though he forgot Sherlock was there. Sherlock was attempting to regain his self control, breathing harshly.

"Oh!" He smiled warmly, his eyes giving away his pure amusement. "You finally get the aim of the game?" he clasped his hands together, eyeing Sherlock's shuddering body then clapped them a couple of times, in a mini mocking applause. "Oh, _good!_ " Moriarty skipped over to Sherlock on the chair again and this time sat in Sherlock's lap. The hard and firm figure trembling with adrenaline beneath him made him chuckle, but this made Sherlock even more furious, pulsing his wrists sharply against the restraints. It was as though all Moriarty needed now was some popcorn for the film. "So, he loves you," the finger pointed in front of Sherlock's face towards the image of John, then back at Sherlock, "but he thinks you don't even feel _basic_ human emotions." he scoffed, the fluffy Irish accent made it sound so much more condescending. "And of course, I already knew that you loved him too. But, I lied." As though narrating a daily soap off the TV, he then shrugged his shoulders, lips pressed together, gloating, staring at his oppositions facial expression. The stiff jaw and steel eyes looked straight ahead. Moriarty _loved_ it when they were angry (Weakness: he had failed to notice Sherlock's nimble right wrist begin to loosen from all of his shaking and struggling (which he dramatically enhanced for this purpose)). He leaned his head against Sherlock's left shoulder, nuzzling triumphantly, Sherlock stiffened and grasped the arms of the chair until his knuckles were white, pretending that it was Moriarty's neck instead.

Sherlock tried to ignore the weight and pressure on his lap and shoulder and instead glared at the video-projection. The most disturbing thing was watching John surrender to the drug, his inhibitions lost, the detective grimaced as he watched John's thoughts flicker over his eyes, he looked sad, and this caused Sherlock's eyes to gloss with a film of tears, a slight relief for they were screaming for moisture. ("I'm going to fuck you, John Watson" scarred Sherlock's mind, he never thought this set of words would sound so hideous until he heard it from Moriarty's lips. Control Sherlock, control. For John.) As the blindfold went over John's eyes, Sherlock quickly turned his mouth to Moriarty's face and bit as hard as he could. (Distraction) This caused Moriarty to throw himself off of his new Sherlock-seat and hop a couple of steps away, wiping his face just under his eye with the back of his hand and analyzing the damage. Sherlock had blood dripping from his mouth, he spat (fucking _dirty_ blood) but remnants still dripped down his chin and onto his torso. The dark red against the pale skin like tar splattered onto snow. 

Moriarty was yelling with a mixture of satisfaction and triumph, basking in the pain as though it were a trophy, Sherlock's way of showing the peak of his anger, success, so Moriarty thought. His screams echoing through the empty warehouse (Mistake: the refusal to allow anyone else to share his victory; selfishness and indulgence has lead him to have no backup.) Those shoes shuffled and tapped the formal legs into a dance (annoying) but Sherlock deduced this weakness of Moriarty's: gloating. He thinks he has already won. (That sing piercing right through his eardrum when he had first stirred from consciousness _'Then_ I _win'_ ). Now Sherlock's slim right wrist had ripped itself free and his dexterous fingers were quickly tugging loops out of the rope at his left elbow and giving him the ability to slide his left wrist away, he had approximately eleven seconds, the left hand (slightly more skilled from the practice of pressing violin strings) then freeing his right elbow. It worked like a domino effect, Sherlock had played this sequence in his mind before his body put it into play, a smooth transition as he then moved his hands to the back of the chair where the clip of the metal cuff of his neck sat. Moriarty was cursing under his breath with a chuckle, as equally happy as Sherlock was angry, and slightly aroused by the pain and blood (as was Moriarty's way).

The picture on the wall was one person missing, it was just John. The projection flickered; from John lying on his tied hands behind his back (blindfold on) and breathing unsteady in an attempt to keep calm, to his hands being free by his sides with a steady inhale and exhale every 2 seconds. The video had switched, to _live_. A red dot flashing in the bottom right corner indicated this. It wasn't the end, not yet. Moriarty had planned to have Sherlock watch him take John live, whilst in the same building. A surge of hope flooded Sherlock, causing a smile to split his face, he was not too late. He towered slightly over the small frame of Moriarty, and was beaming down at the back of the black hair, standing behind him. Moriarty froze, and Sherlock's next sequence was put into play. The smooth breathing of John on the live camera ahead of him kept him sane. Quickly his slender fingers gripped Moriarty's right wrist (which was patchy with the blood from his face) tightly and lifted it straight outwards, as Moriarty's face turned in a moment of surprise, Sherlock delivered a short and quick powerful punch to the elbow, the new found strength caused the arm to crack.

 _This_ scream was new, it was no longer Moriarty's giddy and triumphant one but a furious howl. It made Sherlock's smile more intense, Moriarty had fell with the pain but then staggered to his feet (with surprising agility in that state) to withdraw something out of his pocket. Sherlock had already anticipated this; as Moriarty slashed blindly and inaccurately (right arm was chosen specifically to leave Moriarty with a foreign arm to attack with). The small (but sharp) knife had been dodged by Sherlock spinning behind the criminal, he took the left shoulder (Goal one: Render both sides in pain; slowing opponents attacks) and with his index and middle finger stabbed at three sensitive pressure points as sharply as he could (small strain in the ligaments of his fingers but pain was necessary), Moriarty crumpled to the ground. He could not grip the pain in the shoulder for the snap in the bone of his right arm.

Moriarty _could_ have won. He had everything worked out, but, unlike Sherlock, the criminal had never truly experienced love. Sherlock's affection was completely underestimated by Moriarty- who could never understand the sudden strength and power that erupts inside someone whose loved one is threatened. This, was Sherlock's weapon. He stood over Moriarty, who looked up at Sherlock, both arms useless by his sides, a smug little smile still glued to the (now bloody) face. Sherlock craned down, and hissed in his face with every ounce of threat he could handle, "Don't you _dare_ , touch John again." (Goal two: Render him completely immobile; preferably unconscious) Moriarty shut his eyes peacefully as Sherlock's fist collided with his head in one knock-out punch.


	4. Goal Three: Save John

Sherlock had managed to easily disarm and disable the many robots of Moriarty's army that were guarding John. Some were almost mindless without their criminal mastermind manoeuvring their strings, the odd one gave him a decent fight but they did not stand a chance against Sherlock's blood pumped with adrenaline and hope. John hadn't been taken by Moriarty, not really. Sherlock's bare chest was rising and falling, new splashes of blood appeared with Moriarty's dried patch as he attacked each thug swiftly. He watched the last body slump to the floor, his bare torso was dripping with sweat like the streaks of raindrops on a window pane and spun to see his friend, so relaxed as though he were sleeping, but not quite. Sherlock could not remember having felt alleviation this intensely before, John had not been intimately touched by Moriarty. He watched closer trying to determine how John was affected, he was feeble and weak but his jaw tensing and teeth biting together and he was calm. (Some form of ecstasy, quickly deduced.) No wonder he had managed to almost submit to Jim Moriarty.

As his pockets were empty, he used the first mobile phone he could find in the pocket of the nearest unconscious body. He text Mycroft (he had accidentally and reluctantly remembered his digits, but that did not matter in this moment of time), he just needed a quick and safe lift for them to reach their flat. The phone buzzed in reply almost instantly:

On my way.  
 _MH_  


Sherlock had a few moments before Mycroft would arrive so he rushed to John. He battled with himself whether he should take the blindfold off; he sat on the bed next to John's upper arm. His head was tilted to see that familiar militarily square chin, but Sherlock's stare was drawn to that very familiar philtrum; the peak of flesh above John's lips that Sherlock would recognize anywhere. His body acted first and his mind had caught up with him a moment too late, the astonishing reversal of how Sherlock worked. (It is supposed to be think then do) however Sherlock's utter reprieve made him sigh as his thumb gently stroked John's philtral dimple, the soft flesh being pulled by his thumb gently. John sighed faintly and kissed the palm that was in front of his face with light lips. "Sherlock..." John whispered, barely audible. As the name was said the doctor held his breath and his lips pressed together tightly, pinched at the corners, his hands grabbing thin air by his sides, he exhaled sharply and took in another quick breath, shuddering as his lips pulled further down.

Sherlock could not bear to see John this upset, he felt helpless, lifting the blindfold off John's face he murmured in his deep and reassuring rumble "John, it's me, it's okay." John's eyes were scrunched as though he refused to open them, but Sherlock's thin frame fell onto John's chest. John didn't need to open his eyes, and he felt that familiar mop of curls and the skinniness and murmured, “Oh- Sh-Sherlock, Thank God.”

*

Sherlock was annoyed. “Piss off” Had been repeated a multitude of times since his and John’s arrival back at 221B Baker Street. He just wanted them to be left alone. John was currently in his room, curtains shut, under his covers. It was a side-effect of the drug, depression, lack of motivation, the serotonin levels in his brain were extremely low having released a significant amount in a short period of a time from the ecstasy that Moriarty had induced him with. All Sherlock wanted was for him to have some peace. Not Lestrade trying to gain information for the inept Scotland Yard and certainly not Mycroft trying to stick his big-nose into their business. If John could muster a care for the day, he would surely tell them to give him space too, but Sherlock’s “piss off” sufficed for now.

Sherlock slammed the door for the third time and locked it, leaving a note for Mrs Hudson not to let anyone in for a couple of days. (Of which she kindly shrugged her shoulders, no request was odd to her anymore.) Sherlock spent the day pacing the front room, mindlessly plucking his violin strings and trying to concentrate. He had been so preoccupied with getting to John, to gather him to safety that he had completely neglected to murder Moriarty. He was worried, if that wasn’t a new feeling to Sherlock’s system, then what was? Moriarty might come back to finish the job. That was what he wanted, for Sherlock to watch, helpless and furious, as Moriarty took John from him. The thought that John Watson actually loved him sat in the back of his mind, giving him the odd flutter once in a while, but Sherlock was focusing on the big picture. John’s safety was in jeopardy, this was a level to The Game that Sherlock had not anticipated and it erased all ‘fun’ he had previously and replaced it with pure hatred, John was not a pawn for Moriarty’s use.   
John was trying to sleep, and in his periods of being awake, he was curled into a ball, trying to forget what happened but to no avail. That camera, what had Sherlock seen? Did Sherlock know? He always knew. But the one thing John has always been able to hide, relying on Sherlock’s inefficient social skills was his true feelings for him, and now he was completely open to the detective’s analytical eyes. He groaned in frustration, had he cried? Was it Sherlock who hugged him before he was taken home? Or was it Moriarty as he leaned down to pass him the pill by tongue. John shuddered; his skin remembered all too well the chill in the warehouse and the weight of the man on his middle. His arms hugged his own middle, he was aware of his sleep coming over him again, and each exhale made him groan lightly as he drifted. He was ashamed, he had given up, with a gun pointed to his temple, but he had given up nonetheless. His own infatuation was the weapon and Moriarty had had the upper hand. He was unaware that Sherlock was watching him, once Sherlock had watched John sleep; he went back down into the kitchen. Something was there that was not there earlier, Sherlock’s anger raised, he picked up a letter off the kitchen side and read it quickly.

  
Aw, you ruin all the fun, Sherly. Nevermind... I’ll arrange a later date.  
X

Somewhere in Sherlock’s gut he would laugh at this note, because the handwriting was askew. Sherlock had successfully cracked the bones in Moriarty’s right arm then, but his lips twisted in disgust upon reading it. He glanced around him, the doors and windows were locked, had he locked somebody in? He sprinted back up to where John lay sleeping. His eyes analysing tenfold for any sign, then Sherlock’s expression contorted as he noticed the blindfold on the bedside cabinet. His fury was being controlled by very strong will, if Moriarty was watching them he did not want him to be satisfied with his irritation. He gathered the blindfold carefully before swiftly checking every inch of John’s room and double checking the windows and locking the bedroom door. He spent hours sniffing around the flat for spyware. He found a microphone inside the eye socket of skull on the desk in the living room, and in his own bedroom a small camera in the keyhole of his cupboard (that he never used). This was going to be tedious. Sherlock clutched the blindfold with irritation, he was pissed off at the Scotland Yard, this was supposed to be in their custody, yet Moriarty managed to get his well manicured hands on it. Hours had passed upon his search and he was still going, his shirt sticking to him slightly from the perspiration as he had tried to reach up on bookshelves and lift furniture, he was interrupted as he heard “Sherlock!” from upstairs.

“Why did you lock my door?” John mumbled, Sherlock noticed a slight sweat break on John’s head, he must have scared him when he noticed his door was locked, he handed him his bedroom key, staring straight at John. That familiar face warmed him through every inch of his body from his previous anxiety, knowing John was here, safe, made him so happy. The entire revelation of John’s affections which were torn away as soon as they were given by Moriarty’s proposition gave Sherlock such despair previously, that now his heart rattled his ribcage in a panic of affection for John, as though the beating of it were trying to reach out and beat against John’s own heart.

“Just being safe.” Sherlock answered straight, there was no point in lying to John at this stage, John needed security with Sherlock and his straight answers – lying now would only make him uneasy.

“Right...” John’s eyebrows rose as he looked up at the taller detective, still blocking his way from leaving his room. Sherlock did not budge though, he stood straight and firm, John had not noticed Sherlock’s damp shirt. Sherlock smiled a little, it was a slight tension in his lips and a glisten in his eye as he placed a hand on John’s shoulder to give a reassuring squeeze. John ignored him, and his gesture, and edged past him to head towards the bathroom. This was going to be more difficult on Sherlock’s part than he thought. Maybe John just needed a declarative statement; after all he was not that observant. 

Whilst John was showering Sherlock made them tea and kept checking the flat, once John came into the kitchen Sherlock gave him his tea, and as he drank his own he realised they were cold, but found it irrelevant to apologise. John drank a sip and then looked hesitant to finish it. “John.” The doctor looked up, his face was so still compared to its usual animation. “Mm?”

“John. I love you.” The pink lips of the detective spoke curtly and matter-of-factly, and his eyes stared straight into John’s. 

John sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked irritated. Sherlock was taken aback, his mouth opened to reiterate himself but his mouth closed again when John’s hand hit the table and his other scrubbed his face in disbelief. 

“Right... Listen Sherlock. You have obviously watched or seen whatever Moriarty did to me, and just because he said all those things, it doesn’t mean...” He tried to explain. His voice was monotone as he continued and he stared blankly at his cold tea. “You don’t have to say anything, just because you feel obligated. You can’t say things like that and not mean it.” John finished, with another exasperated sigh and slipped away from the table. Sherlock was dumbstruck for the first time as he watched John leave for his bedroom again. He thought that with those three simple words everything would be sorted, and he admitted in his head. _I was wrong._


End file.
